Deception
by Lustful Muse
Summary: The King will be hosting a tournament. All young and able-bodied men are eligible to participate. The victor will receive a hefty sum of gold. With her family in dire need of money, Isabella decides to enter. The challenge? Making everyone believe she is a man.
1. Chapter 1

There will be a tournament in three days.

Pausing, I turn my head towards the voices. Percy nudges my hand with his snout, eager for the carrot that I'm holding. I give him his treat and run a brush through his mane, straining to overhear more of the conversation. With Percy munching so enthusiastically, I can hardly hear what is being said.

After glancing around, I remove my boots and creep to the barn window. My feet are silent upon the hay floor. Peeking outside, I see an old man holding a piece of parchment.

"Imagine what I could do with that gold," he says wistfully. "Surely then I could buy my own land."

I watch as another man snatches the sheet. Rubbing his chin, he squints at the writing. After a moment, he flings it to the ground with a scoff.

"Have you been partaking in our lord's cellar? It says that you must possess strength and skill. Only a fool would mistakenly think that you qualify."

Shaking his head, he grabs two nearby shovels and hands one to his companion.

"This would have been a golden opportunity in our prime, but how could we compete now with men so much younger?"

"You're right," the other sighs, "some days I feel that I'm no match for this manure."

They begin to walk away and I wait for them to round the corner. Hoisting myself onto a crate, I leap through the window. I retrieve the discarded parchment, shaking off a bit of dirt, and hurry back into the stable.

The royal insignia has been inked on the document. It says that the King will be hosting a tournament. Participants will challenge each other during combat. My eyes widen at the sum listed for reward. Surely there must be some mistake. One thousand gold pieces could support my parents for life. Excited, I scan the rest of the document. My focus narrows in on a word.

Men.

Why are they to be the only competitors? Gritting my teeth, I crumple the proclamation and fling it down. Percy takes a sniff then makes a grab for it. I snatch it back before it becomes his next meal and he makes a disgruntled snort. I hesitate a moment before finally unfurling it.

Suddenly the barn door opens. I shove the paper into my pocket. Slipping back into my boots, I give Percy a pat and move to the next stall. As I am laying out my tools, I hear the rattling of keys approaching. The smell of stale whisky permeates the air. I crinkle my nose at the odor.

Laurent enters the stall and saunters towards me. Sweat gathers at the nap of my neck. The horse pick is in my fist and I grip it tighter.

"You're looking delectable, Isabella," he leers. Licking his lips he adds, "as always."

His gaze begins at the hem of my dress and I can feel it slithering up my waist. It lingers on my breasts and my lips curl. I'm ready to storm away when his words stop me.

"Have you already cleaned the hooves on this horse?" he asks lightly. "I could have sworn you just got to this stall."

Shooting Laurent a glare, I continue working, but my eyes kept flicking to him. It's disgusting the way he lurks here, watching me when no one else is around. Choosing the hoof furthest away from him, I carefully examine it. I make sure to dislodge every stone and pebble I encounter. When Laurent grunts impatiently, I smirk, continuing to clean each hoof at this pace.

Finally only a single hoof remains and it's the one closest to Laurent. I attempt to squeeze my way past his body but his protruding stomach makes that impossible.

"Excuse me, sir," I grit out.

He lifts an eyebrow as though ignorant of what I am asking.

"Can you step aside? I need to clean that last hoof."

"Go ahead," he replies, gesturing to the horse yet making no attempt to move away.

I glance at the minuscule space that remains between the horse and his body. Laurent is already leering in anticipation. Grabbing the reins, I walk the horse in a tight circle. I hold in my snicker as Laurent yelps, having experienced horse rump in his face.

I hum pleasantly while cleaning the last hoof.

"My father will be retiring soon," Laurent sneers, wiping his chin with a cloth. "You'd be wise to secure your place before then."

"What are you talking about?" I demand.

He steps closer and has the audacity to reach for my cheek. I slap his hand away before he can do so. The glare that I receive from him is unnerving.

"Do you think you can prance around here as you like?" Laurent spits out. "My father only hired you out of pity. Once I take over, you'll get none of that from me."

"Who's to say that I'll still be here when that happens?"

Laurent laughs coldly.

"Where else would you go? Your father is ill and your mother is a laundry woman. There is no one else who would have you."

It is in moments like these that I loathe him. Raising my chin, I leave without another word. Laurent can shout for me to return all he wants, but he cannot force me.

I lift the skirts of my dress and start to run.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun is setting when I return home. Shifting my bundle to one arm, I lift the latch on our wooden gate and a bell jingles as I enter. Within a few steps I reach the front door, but I hesitate before entering.

Through the window I can see my mother stirring a pot over the fire place. My father is sitting next to her at the table. His skin is sallow and lined with age, but his face is tender as he looks at my mother. He says something to her and she laughs. There is a tingle behind my eyes as I watch them. My mother sees me and hurries to let me in.

"What a plump rabbit!" she exclaims, placing it on the counter. "We can add this to the broth and have stew."

I lean down to hug her and she kisses my cheek.

"That's a clean shot to the eye," my father comments as he examines my kill. Warmth fills my chest as I hug him.

"This rabbit was the larger of the two I had caught. I traded the other for a couple of potatoes."

"My goodness, we'll have a feast tonight!" my mother says.

I tie my long hair into a braid and quickly begin helping my mother in the kitchen. Once everything has been cooked, I assist my father to his chair. Beneath his flannel sleeves I can feel bone. When did he become so thin? Searching the cupboard, I take out our largest bowl and serve my father his stew.

I am pouring myself a bowl when my mother hands me a letter.

"Michael has been asking after you," she explains, watching my reaction carefully. "It seems that you've made quite an impression during his visit."

I leave the letter next to my bowl and continue eating. The weight of her stare makes me finally look up.

"Well aren't you going to read it?"

Chewing, I shake my head.

"He's inviting you to visit his home," she exclaims, clasping her hands together. "Isn't that exciting? He would make a fine husband."

"For who?" I ask, taking a sip of water.

"Isabella! Michael has hinted at his intentions for marriage. Don't you feel the least bit inclined to consider him?"

"I've already spent many hours with him. I believe I know all about his wealth and hobbies. I have no interest in hearing about them again."

"You would do well to heed your mother's words," my father says.

My cheeks redden at his stern tone. Placing my fork down, I reach for the letter. I endeavor to read each word calmly, but my mind keeps flashing back to his visit. Even months later I can still feel his horrid breath and groping hands trying to rip off my dress.

The chair smacks the ground as I stand. My mother is shouting but it is too late. The fire catches on the dry parchment and it quickly starts to burn. I stare at it, transfixed. Grabbing a poker, my mother tries to retrieve it, but my father holds her back.

"Why in the world did you do that?" she demands. "He's a nice man. You would be happy with him."

"Life with him would certainly be miserable."

"Michael is a gentleman" my mother counters. "He comes from a good family and has the means to provide for you. With him, you would want for nothing."

"I am capable of providing for myself."

"Nora!" she shouts in exasperation, "don't you realize how rare a prospect like this is? I don't understand why you won't agree to visit him!"

"I never want to see him again!" I retort, raising my voice for the first time. My parents have no idea what Michael is really like. I would rather work odd jobs for the rest of my life than spend another day in his company.

"Enough!" my father bellows as he stands up and pounds his fist onto the table. "What has gotten into you? Your mother is only looking out for your best interests. Why are you —"

His words are cut off as he gasps, grabbing his chest. My father fumbles for the edge of the table, but his fingers slip. I watch in horror as his head slams into a corner and he collapses to the ground.

My mother shrieks and rushes to his side. I hear her calling for me but I am already out the door. My feet strike the cobblestone as I sprint down the street. With only the moon and occasional street lamp, I can hardly see in front of me. Panic grips my chest as I squint at the houses. In the dark, they all look the same.

I am ready to pound on the next door I see when I spot a rosemary bush. Flinging open the gate, I leap up the steps.

"Doctor Wilkins!" I scream, banging on the door. I keep at it until I hear the lock being unbolted.

Finally, a grizzled man emerges. He recognizes me and scowls, attempting to shut the door once again. I latch onto his elbow before he can do so.

"Come quickly," I urge, pulling him forward with me.

"But I'm closed!" he complains. He tries to pull away to no avail.

With a firm grip on his arm, he has no choice but to follow me. Although I've lessened my pace, I must urge Doctor Wilkins to keep up and he stumbles more than once.

My mother sees him when we reach home and her relief is palpable. I bite my lip as she explains what happened. Between glances at my father and my mother's tear-stricken face, he reluctantly agrees to help. My mother fetches some linens and a pot of hot water. With me lifting his arms and Doctor Wilkins carrying his legs, we maneuver my father onto a bed.

Now that his heart attack has passed, my father looks serene. The gash on his temple, however, looks grotesque. My mother stands next to me and I place an arm around her. Together we watch as Doctor Wilkins cleans the cut.

Still, my father remains unconscious.

"You must look after him during the next few days," Doctor Wilkins instructs, bandaging the wound with strips of cloth. "He must avoid strenuous activity and get plenty of rest."

"What's wrong with him," my mother whispers.

"The blow to his head might have given him a concussion. Be on the look out for any changes in behavior. If there are, you must contact me at once."

I grab a stool and place it next to the bed. My father's hand feels clammy against mine. My mother and Doctor Wilkins go back into the kitchen, but I can still hear their voices.

"I don't have the money right now," my mother admits. I know her face must be flushed in shame. "But I promise to pay you as soon as I can."

Doctor Wilkins makes a frustrated sigh.

"That's exactly what you told me last time. You're already behind in your payments."

"Please," she replies, "just give me a little more time."

Upon hearing the pleading in her voice I turn away. Instead I stare at my father's face. He and my mother have taken me in when I was young and I've known no other parents but them. Reaching into my pocket, I clench the paper hidden there.

I vow to do all I can for them.


	3. Chapter 3

After ensuring that my mother is asleep, I sneak quietly out of the house. Immediately feeling the chill in the air, I clench the cloak tighter around my body. Keeping to the shadows, I run swiftly along the street.

There is a tavern on the corner. Boisterous laughter reverberates from inside. As I pass the open doorway, I pull the hood lower over my face.

I stop in front of a dilapidated building. A faded sign hangs above the entrance, creaking on its chains as the wind blows. Kneeling, I slide my hands along the bricks next to the window. There is one that shifts when I touch it. Pulling it from the wall, I remove the key hidden behind it.

Once inside, I lock the door. There is a kerosene lamp on the table covered by a layer of grime. After scrounging around, I find some matches and the room is soon illuminated. A fire place dominates one wall. Next to it are rows of tools that my father once used to forge metal.

In this smithy I feel a sense of nostalgia. This is where I spent my childhood and being here again brings back memories.

I walk to the anvil and run my fingers along it. Taking three measured steps to the side, I crouch down and begin knocking on the floor boards. I remember my father having a place to hide his things. I just need to find it again.

One plank makes a hollow thud. Lifting it up, I reach into the opening. I gasp as a rat scurries out. I catch a glimpse of its tail before it slips under a shelf.

Grabbing the lamp this time, I shine it into the hole. It's draped with cobwebs. Brushing them aside, I pull out a burlap sack and drop it to the floor beside me. A cloud of dust wafts up that causes me to sneeze.

The first thing I see when I open the sack is a shield. Despite its tarnished metal, I can still make out its crest. It's the golden lion of the royal family. This is what my father carried while fighting under King Carlisle.

Laying it to the side, I pick up the sword beneath it. I test the weight of it in my hands, finding it heavier than I am used to. Wielding it would take some adjusting.

I stand up and swing the sword in an arch, pleased by the whistling sound of the blade. My body starts to move, recalling techniques learned long ago.

As a child, I likened sword fighting to a dance. I admired the strength and beauty of the motions - and my father all the more for teaching me. Whenever I could, I would be in here learning from him. At first he was merely trying to indulge me, but as I got older our lessons became serious. I wanted the ability to fight and protect.

There is perspiration along my forehead from my efforts, yet my breathing has remained steady. I place the sword back in its sheath and cross the strap over my shoulders. Looking once more into the sack, I furrow my eyebrows. Nestled at the bottom are twin daggers, the very ones my father had given me three years ago. They were a gift for my fourteenth birthday. On each hilt is a large ruby. When my father became ill, I had offered to sell them. They could have fetched a handsome price.

Why have they been hidden here?

Placing a strap on each thigh, I secure the daggers to my body. These are less cumbersome than the sword and I don't want to leave them behind. Even the shield might come in handy so I swing that onto my back as well.

The royal kingdom is more than a three day walk from here, but I can make it if I have a horse.

Fortunately, I know where to get one.


End file.
